


Oysters

by RaggedRose



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaggedRose/pseuds/RaggedRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Matthews and Hornblower are set adrift in an open boat, they find an island—and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oysters

Hornblower sat numbly in the sternsheets. The laughter of the Frenchmen still filled his mind. Defeat, and worse than defeat. The open boat bobbed on the waves as the little schooner sailed away. It was drifting, purposeless.

 

Matthews sat in the bow. He watched the Frenchman sail away, and saw his officer’s despair. There was nothing else to be done now. It tugged at him to see Mr. Hornblower so, but his utter hopelessness was one of the reasons that they were now being given their freedom, such as it was. He faced the departing ship, and granted his officer what privacy he could.

 

The Frenchmen had retaken their vessel from the tiny prize crew just that morning. Matthews had been roughly pulled from his hammock and hustled on deck. Mr. Hornblower was already there, sagging dizzily between two of their former prisoners. A large lump on his forehead was already turning purple, evidence of his fight not to be taken. Hamilton and Fellowes, who had been on watch, were lying in their blood by the tiller. Matthews felt again the guilt at abandoning any attempt at resistance wash over him. There had been no point in doing so, he knew it in his soul. All he would have accomplished was to add his own body and likely Mr. Hornblower’s as well to the heap on the deck. He raised his head slightly. The schooner’s stern was much smaller now. They had reset their large mainsail and were in the process of raising the foresail. The jib and main staysail were set as well and the small vessel was making good time. It wouldn’t be long now. Good thing, too.

 

The small boat pitched and rocked in the swell. Between the motion and the blow to the head, Hornblower was beginning to feel the return of seasickness. Abruptly, he leaned over the stern to vomit. He clutched at the wood, his head against the tiller. It kicked to the side as the swell took it, then cracked against his already aching head. The sickness took him again and he hung helplessly over the transom.

 

Matthews scrambled aft. He took Hornblower by the shoulders and moved him clear of the wildly swinging bar, his legs spread wide to keep his balance in the pitching boat. He took hold of it as he looked about. Without any forward motion to the boat to give him steerage way, his action was of precious little use, though it would keep the tiller from hitting Hornblower. He spied a piece of line flung under the after thwart. Quickly, he used it to lash the tiller amidships. Then he did the only thing he could think of. He shipped one of the sets of oars and began to row. As the boat began to move, the motion eased and the lashed helm began to aid his efforts to keep the boat moving in a straight line. He used the oars to turn the boat so she met the waves, instead of wallowing helplessly in the troughs.

 

Hornblower realized that he had been drifting when he began to come back to himself. He raised his head from the sternsheets. His back was wedged against the side of the boat, and he was sitting on the bottom boards. The boat moved purposefully now, obviously under command. He heard the squeak of oars against thole pins and looked up. Matthews smiled down at him between easy strokes. One lazy pull at the oars, rest, then another stroke. It was enough to move them through the water, but it was a stroke that an experienced oarsman could maintain for hours.

 

“Are ye feeling better, sir?” Matthews brought the oars back after another stroke for the measured pause. He moved almost unconsciously, and Hornblower found himself admiring the grace of the man. Belatedly, he realized that Matthews was waiting for an answer.

 

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Matthews.” In fact he felt dizzy, his mind seemed afloat in a way, separate from his body. The sickness was gone, though. He started to pull himself up to sit in the sternsheets, but found that his legs would not obey him. He looked up at the cloudless sky, then quickly back to the horizon as dizziness threatened to overcome him. He closed his eyes as the nausea returned.

 

“Easy, sir.” Matthews stopped rowing, ready to pull the oars inboard. “Nothing to see, and you took quite a knock on the head. Just you rest now, Mr. Hornblower.” His heart sank, but he hid it as best he could. Perhaps if Mr. Hornblower rested a bit, it would be better. He hoped so, for both their sakes. While it seemed to him that they were traveling east, towards the coast of France, the fact was they were adrift in an open boat, out of sight of land. The French had given them no supplies, and the only things in the boat aside from the oars and a couple of discarded pieces of cordage were some scraps of canvas. Taking up the oars and rowing for the coast, or what he hoped was the coast, was the only thing he could think to do. It would likely mean their capture, but even that was better than staying out here until thirst overcame them both.

 

Hornblower slid wearily to the bottom of the boat and allowed sleep to take him.

 

****

 

“Where are we?”

 

Matthews started at the sound of his companion’s voice. It had been several hours since he’d heard it. He had rowed steadily through the afternoon, keeping to the easy stroke, letting the regular motion calm him. Nothing existed save the stroke, Mr. Hornblower’s steady breathing, and the sun’s progress across the sky. It was the only landmark he had on the featureless ocean. As it passed its zenith and began its descent towards the horizon, he rowed away from it. Where were they? He wished he knew.

 

“I don’t know, sir.” He cursed himself for his words, but it was the truth. What else could he say? “I’ve got us headed east, I think.”

 

Hornblower raised his head. The pain was waiting for him a foot or so above the bottom boards, but the nausea was blessedly absent. He hauled himself up to sit in the sternsheets and forced himself to look at their surroundings. They were alone in an empty ocean. Sky met sea in a perfect circle, the hot blue arc unbroken save for the disc of the sun. He looked quickly away from it as it drove the pain deeper into his brain. Four miles or so to the horizon, so they sat in the center of a circle eight miles round. He struggled to think, to make sense of what he knew and where they were. He had known their position when he had gone off watch. How long ago had that been? What would their speed under oars be, and how long had Matthews been rowing? It was all an equation, and the solution would mean their lives. He looked about the small boat.

 

“When did you start rowing, Matthews?” Was that relief flitting across the weathered face? He drew strength from it. They would survive from such intangibles. His duty and his responsibility to the one man he had left of his command demanded his best effort. He must get them out of this somehow.

 

“Oh, as soon as the Frenchie was out of sight, sir.” Matthews thought for a minute, remembering the position of the sun then. He stopped rowing for a minute and pulled the oars inboard, crossing them over his lap. He slid a leg under the oars and over the thwart until he faced roughly south, and held his thumb up. He turned it until it pointed to the sun. “Oh, it’s about the end of the afternoon watch now, sir. I think I started about the middle of the forenoon?”

 

Hornblower nodded, grateful to have enough information to begin the process of finding their position. Like a wildly swinging compass card returning to true, his mind began turning over possibilities. “So about six hours, then?”

 

“More or less, sir.” Matthews turned to sit on the thwart properly. “Shall I start rowing again?”

 

The motion of the boat was beginning to set Hornblower’s seasickness off again. “Yes, if you please.” He slid the lashings from the helm and took the tiller in his hand. It wasn’t much, but at least he could do something.

 

“Aye, sir.” Matthews slid the oars outboard again and began to row. He set himself to ignore the thirst that was beginning to tug at him. It would be worse for Mr. Hornblower after that bout of seasickness. He prayed silently that the officer would be able to steer them toward land. With nothing, they wouldn’t last long out here.

 

As the afternoon wore on, Hornblower began to feel stronger. When he had started, it was all he could do to hold himself upright at the tiller. “Matthews, take the helm.”

 

Matthews obediently stopped rowing and looked at his officer. His color was better to be sure, but the way he held himself still seemed wrong somehow. Matthews could feel the strain of the labor in his arms and back, but he knew that he could continue for a while yet. The thirst that was becoming his constant companion was the worst. He knew that if they didn’t make land in the next day or so, it would be the thing that would pull him down. “Are ye sure, sir? I can go a bit longer yet.”

 

Hornblower gathered himself at the edge of the bench. “Of course I’m sure. You can’t row the whole way to France yourself, man.”

 

Matthews leaned on the oars. “Aye sir, I can if I have to. And begging your pardon, but you’re still not right from that knock on the head.”

 

Hornblower smiled ruefully. “I’m fit enough to take my turn, Matthews. Now give me the oars.”

 

Matthews still didn’t move. “I don’t know where we are. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather have ye steer.” He stopped, unwilling to say more, and risk revealing too much. He had been holding the memories of his last time in an open boat at bay. Cold had been the least of it. Not knowing where they were had been worse. That and the thirst which was even now beginning to torture him. There had been no officer in the boat, no one who knew how to find their way over the trackless ocean. He began to row again.

 

Something in Matthews’s eyes made Hornblower stop. “All right, Matthews. As you wish.” He sat back against the transom and continued to refine his idea of their position.

 

By evening, Hornblower was forced to admit to himself that he had only the vaguest idea of where they were. They had been roughly fifty miles off the coast of France when he had gone off watch, sailing north. Matthews could row roughly two or three knots an hour, at least that was his best guess. Thus, a full day should put them near enough to land to see it. Another ten hours at least, and that from their position when he had turned in, not from when they were set adrift. Matthews seemed tireless, but that was too much to ask of anyone. What if he were wrong? It was more than possible that he was. He forced himself to remain outwardly calm. Matthews deserved that much at least. ‘A captain must always be an inspiration to his men.’ Pellew’s words ran through his mind. He had nothing else to give the man he had left now. No water, no food. Nothing but the hope that he could lead him out of this.

 

“Matthews, you must at least rest for a time. Let me take the oars.” He felt fit enough.

 

“No sir.” Matthews didn’t even vary his stroke. “The longer we’re out here, the less chance we have.”

 

Hornblower couldn’t help but agree. “True, but there are two of us. And you can’t keep this up all night. I order you to give me the oars and to get some sleep.” He saw the hesitation in Matthews’s eyes. “We’re still at least thirty miles from the coast, Matthews.” A lie, he had no idea how far it actually was, but could think of no other way to get the man to rest. “You can row—what? Two knots an hour? That would put us another fifteen hours from the coast, and at least twelve before we’ll be in sight of land.”

 

Matthews could feel the exertion like fire through his arms. His thirst told him to refuse, to trust even his exhausted body to get them both to safety, but his trust in his officer and the years of obedience led him to do as he was told. “Aye, sir.” He slid the oars inboard. His cramped body obeyed his order to stand with difficulty, and he stifled a groan as he took the two steps back to the tiller.

 

Hornblower felt renewed guilt as he saw how stiffly his companion moved. “Go forward, Matthews. I’ll lash the helm.”

 

“Aye, sir.” Matthews stumbled back over the thwart. The loss of the steady motion of the stroke had taken all his strength with it. It was all he could do to keep from tumbling to the bottom boards. He managed to curl up in the bottom of the boat before exhaustion took him.

 

When he woke, they were drifting. The sun was just beginning to lighten the horizon. He raised his head. His throat was on fire, his mouth sandpaper dry. Mr. Hornblower was slumped in the stern, one of the oar handles still clutched in his hand. The other, thankfully, was trailing across the thwart. Matthews groaned as he rose and scrambled aft. The efforts of the day before had left his whole body stiff and sore. Though he pulled an oar every time the ship was in port, twelve or more hours of it would do for any man. His back knotted in protest as he stepped over the thwart. He turned Hornblower over gently and untangled him from the oars. He stowed them safely along the sides. They represented the only chance for life they had, though his whole body cringed at the thought of using them again. He put a hand on his officer’s forehead, being careful to avoid the large bruise. The skin was icy, and he didn’t stir at the touch. Matthews lay him in the bottom of the boat as comfortably as he could. There was nothing else to be done.

 

As the first rays of the sun lanced over the horizon, Matthews set the oars in the thole pins and settled himself again to row. With the rising sun to his back, he began, trying to remain aware of nothing but the stroke, and the direction. It was the only thing he could do to hold death at bay. Without water, he knew that this would be his last effort.

 

The day wore on. The chill of early morning gave way to warmth, and then to the heat. The pain and stiffness gave way to his efforts at the oars, but the thirst only grew greater, tormenting him. How long had Mr. Hornblower said? Fifteen hours from last night, when he had given over the oars. He wished fervently now that he’d stood his ground. Fifteen blessed hours, and twelve till they might sight the coast. Most of them could have been covered in the cool of the night. He realized how close he was to cursing his officer for condemning him to do the work in the fierce sun, to labor without the water his body begged for. He remembered Mr. Hornblower’s face and the rueful smile on it when he had taken over. His officer had only been trying to do what was right.

 

Matthews stopped. Such thoughts would only weaken him. Better not to think, and just to do. He began counting his strokes, praying that he was still going the right way. With the sun directly overhead, he had no way to gauge his direction. There was no compass to tell him, and no officer. It was up to him. He counted one hundred, and then again. As the sun passed its zenith, he once again could use it to steer by, feeble though the guidance was.

 

The sound of the surf must not have registered for some time, he later realized. When it did, he could scarcely believe it. He turned to look over his shoulder and felt tears start to his eyes. The beach was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He had done it. He turned back to his work and quickly drove the boat ashore. As the keel grated on the sand, he tried to leap over the gunwale. His foot caught on it and he splashed over the side headlong into the water. It was shallow enough for him to hit the sand under it. He was up more quickly than he could credit, desperation giving him the strength he needed. He grabbed the side of the boat and dug his feet into the sand, holding it against the suction as the sea surged back out. As the next wave came in, he used it to beach the boat. Painfully, he dragged it as far up the beach as he could manage. When they were safe, he fell to his knees in the soft sand as his strength left him.

 

Thirst and cold finally got him to his feet. He used the gunwale of the boat to pull himself up. His arms and legs were heavy, lancing fire through his body but the thirst ruled him. The sun was low in the west. If he were to find water and shelter for them, he needed to use the light as long as it lasted. He made for the edge of the beach, where the sand gave way to bushes. He ducked down as he reached the crest of the low hill that ran above it.

 

There were few trees, and little land before him. Beyond it he could see the sea, and beyond that, the mainland. The island stretched out to either side of him for all its narrowness and there were trees, and grass. He prayed there would be water as well. If there were not, they would have to go on to the next land and certain capture. He struck out along the spine of the island.

 

It was nearly dark when he came across the small spring. It bubbled forth near the end of the island and ran downward to the sea beyond. Matthews fell down beside it and buried his face in the trickle of water. He sucked it up greedily, letting it soak the front of his shirt. It was clear and cold and nothing in his life had ever tasted so good.

 

Presently he sat up, realizing guiltily that he had completely forgotten about Mr. Hornblower. In the darkness, he could see nothing to carry water back with, and as he traced the small creek that ran from the spring down to the water he realized how small it really was. He shivered as he stepped onto the beach and the wind hit him. Both the cold and the apprehension he felt at having left the unconscious officer alone made his walk down the beach brisk and short. It took far less time to make the journey on the sand and rocks, recently washed smooth by the tide, than it had to go overland through the brush.

 

When he reached the boat, Hornblower was as he had left him. With his thirst relieved, Matthews felt much better. Carefully he heaved his officer out of the boat and laid him on the sand. It was more difficult to turn the boat over by himself, but he managed it, and found two rocks small enough to carry, but large enough to prop one side of the boat up a foot or so. He buried the opposite gunwale under a foot or so of sand to keep the wind from blowing under it. By the time he had dragged his officer under the makeshift shelter, he was exhausted. He lay down beside Hornblower and gave himself over to sleep.

 

****

Matthews woke to the grey light of morning. Fingers of cold had crawled under the boat and were clutching him by his very bones. It contrasted with the one area of warmth. Mr. Hornblower was curled in his arms. The officer’s head was against his shoulder, his arms against his chest. Matthews lay there for a moment. Mr. Hornblower looked much younger in sleep. The slight smile on his face stole its way into Matthews’s heart. He wished they could lie thus forever. Reality intruded, however. It wouldn’t do to have him wake that way, now would it? Matthews couldn’t for the life of him remember how they’d gotten that way. Aye, it was the cold, but it was worrying all the same. He’d known for some time now how interesting he found the young officer, and how impossible that interest was. If Hornblower had been another seaman, and had returned that interest, that would be one thing. This, however, was another. The distance between the focsle and the quarterdeck yawned wide. At least Hornblower appeared to be sleeping normally. Matthews prayed that he’d taken no lasting hurt from their ordeal. Carefully, he slid his arm out from underneath Hornblower and himself out from under the boat.

 

He shivered in the breeze that blew in from the ocean and hugged his short blue jacket closer around him. The sky was a smooth expanse of slate, the sea only slightly darker where they met at the horizon. There was no sound save the sound of the wind, the waves coming in on the beach, and the cries of seabirds. Matthews set off in the direction of the spring, scanning the beach for something to bring back some water with.

 

As he walked along the beach, the sand was broken more and more by rocks. In his haste to get back to Mr. Hornblower, he hadn’t realized it the night before in the dark. It was more interesting than the smooth sand, and he began looking in the shallow pools for something to eat. He was not disappointed. Nestled in the pools were rough layered shells, larger the farther out into the surf he ventured. Oysters! Matthews saw a solution to both his pressing problems, the hunger that was now tormenting him almost as much as his thirst had been, and the problem of how to carry water back to Mr. Hornblower. He laid his jacket aside on the sand. He pulled his marlinspike from the worn leather sheath at his waist and used it to pry an oyster from the rock. Then, the rough shell in his hand, he put the tip of the spike in the hinge between the top and bottom shells and twisted hard. The top shell was levered aside. He used his knife to cut the creature free and then gulped it down. Several others followed in quick succession.

 

By the end of it, Matthews was wet and filthy. He waded out farther into the surf and washed the mud and oyster juices from him, clothes and all. By now, the sun was beginning to cut through the mist. If the days at sea were anything to go by, he would soon be dry. The deep chill of the dawn had already faded. He carried the shells he had discarded in his eagerness to satisfy his hunger up to the beach. They were all small, far too small to carry much water with. He walked up to the edge of the sand and stripped. He hung his wet clothes on the bushes. He took his marlinspike from its sheath, his neckerchief in his hand, and went back into the water. As he waded farther out, the oysters got larger. When they were large enough to carry a reasonable amount of water, he held his breath and submerged himself, using the spike to pry them from the rocks until he had several wrapped in the cloth.

 

Back on the beach, he pried his prizes open and extracted the meat from some of them. He washed the shells in the surf and resumed his wet clothes. He stuffed his wet neckerchief, still holding half a dozen of the creatures, under his belt and walked the rest of the way to the spring.

 

Hornblower struggled awake. The surface beneath him was blessedly still, and he could hear the pounding of the surf. His head still hurt abominably, but it was the thirst that tormented him over all. He lay there a moment, mastering his various pains and realized that he was alone. Where was Matthews? He looked up at the boat curving above his head. Someone had put it in that position.

 

“Matthews?” There was no answer. Slowly, Hornblower crawled out from beneath the boat. He rose to his knees in the sand and looked down the beach. There was no one, nothing but the sound of the surf and the cry of sea birds. He used the side of the boat to gain his feet, clinging to it for support. The dizziness had returned and the pain in his head filled the world. He set his hands flat against the wood and waited for it to pass.

 

“Sir?”

 

Matthews’s voice penetrated the dizziness.

 

“Sir, are ye all right?”

 

Hornblower turned to look at his companion. “I’m fine, Matthews.” It was a lie, and they both probably knew it. He felt gentle hands take his weight and help him to sit, his back against the boat. Water was held to his lips. Greedily he sucked at it, and far too soon, it was gone.

 

Matthews watched with relief as his officer opened his eyes. “There’s a spring down the beach a ways, sir.” He could still see the thirst in Hornblower’s eyes and wished he had more to give him. “I didn’t have a way to carry any more from it though.” He pulled his filthy neckerchief from his belt. “There’s oysters down there too, sir. Big ones.”

 

Hornblower smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Thank you, Matthews. You’ve done very well.” Well? The man had saved both their lives while he lay there useless. He felt the water’s strength flow through him and struggled upright again.

 

Matthews stood close by, ready to catch his officer should he fall again, but knew better than to interfere. Mr. Hornblower needed to get his feet under him in more ways than one, and the sooner it was done, the better. “I brought some back with me if ye’d like some, sir.”

 

Hornblower leaned against the side of the boat. “You’re a wonder, Matthews. Yes, I think I would.” What he really wanted was water, lots of water. He doubted he had the strength to walk up the beach, though.

 

He felt much better after he had eaten the oysters. Well enough to struggle up the beach to the spring. His pride demanded no less. After he had drunk his fill of the cold water he felt almost himself again.

 

The rest of the daylight was taken up with their immediate needs. Together they rowed the boat as close as the rocky shore would allow to the spring. By the time they had dragged it far up the beach and turned it over again, Hornblower’s strength was spent. Matthews left him by the boat and went inland to gather some wood.

 

There wasn’t all that much to be had, only brushwood that would burn quickly. By the time Matthews had accumulated a decent pile of it he realized that even with food and water, they could not remain here long. Starting the fire was even more difficult. Neither man had a tinderbox. Again, Matthews found himself walking up and down the beach until he found a stone that would strike a spark from his marlinspike. He blessed the foresight that had caused him to lie down in his hammock fully clothed.

 

In the end, he managed to make a fire that warmed them both. They lay up against the side of the boat, soaking in the heat. A few oysters lay sizzling on the rocks before the flames, their top shells removed. A small heap of them was off to one side of the fire.

 

Matthews picked up another oyster, using his neckerchief to shield his hand. He noticed Hornblower’s head nodding as he fought off sleep. He slid the oyster into his mouth. Not bad, but not something a man could live on forever. He tried not to remember that morning as he watched his officer doze. While there had been work to do, it had been easy not to think of him. Now, his belly full and no discomforts other than the familiar ache of a day’s work to distract him, he was finding it hard to keep the memories of the warm body curled up in his arms at bay. He dreaded crawling under the boat to sleep beside Mr. Hornblower. What if it happened again? What if Mr. Hornblower woke first?

 

In the end, he did nothing more than bank the coals and stretch out on the sand beside the boat.

 

****

 

Hornblower woke with his face against the sand. The mist had closed in and gray sea met gray sky seamlessly. He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest in a vain attempt to get warm. Shivering, he crawled over to the fire and dug carefully in the sand around it until he came to live coals. Soon he had a small blaze going.

 

He looked over to Matthews, who was curled up as tightly as possible. He studied the weathered face, relaxed in sleep. Again, guilt stabbed at him as he thought of how unstintingly the man had given of himself to save them. Without his strength and his skills, neither of them would be alive now. He resolved to do better, to do his duty instead of leaving it to others as he had for the last two days. If—no, when they returned to Indefatigable, he would see that Matthews’s loyalty was rewarded. He felt a sudden surge of tenderness. Of all the men under his command, Matthews was the one who had taken care of him, time after time. He was the one who had made sure that he had enough clothes the first time they had had to take to an open boat. This time, he’d made sure of their shelter and had found food and water in a place that looked as if it could yield neither. He got up and walked toward the trees, determined to repay him in kind.

 

****

 

Matthews opened his eyes to warmth. The fire was built up again, chasing back the cold. He stretched. The ache in his muscles was fading and he finally felt truly rested. Hornblower was sitting, staring into the flames. He must be feeling better, Matthews thought as he saw that the woodpile was replenished. Thank the Lord for that! He could keep them alive, but only Mr. Hornblower could get them home.

 

After they had breakfasted, Hornblower took them both to the top of the island. He had wished devoutly for a telescope as he had surveyed the land across the narrow strip of water earlier, but what his eyes had revealed to him was enough for a beginning.

 

“I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a fishing boat go around the point down there.” Hornblower pointed at the opposite beach. “I also think that there might be a road up there.”

 

Matthews followed the tree line down, and saw a splash of lighter gray beyond. “Aye, Mr. Hornblower, I think there is.”

 

“In any case, we cannot consider ourselves alone in this place, Matthews. Neither can we leave it without supplies of some kind.” Hornblower scanned the shore as he spoke. “There are two of us. One must keep watch from our camp, while the other watches the shore. Where do the local fishing boats go, and where are they kept? Do people use the beach on the other side, and do they use the road, if that even is a road? Where is the nearest village? When we have some idea of where we are, then we can make plans for leaving this place.” Hornblower returned the ready smile Matthews gave him, and felt the weight of command settle once more on his grateful shoulders. “Watch the camp, if you would, and I shall watch the shore.”

 

“Aye aye, sir!”

 

Hornblower watched Matthews all but bounce down the hill. He turned to his task, but his heart was not nearly as light. Brave words, to be sure, but Matthews did not seem to see that there was no plan behind them. Yes, they could find out all these things, but from there—where? He studied the shore, looking for a likely place to hide their boat. They must make the crossing in it, and somehow steal what they needed. They had no weapons, no knowledge of the area, and they both wore English uniforms. All it would take would be one shout from some Frenchman.

 

Matthews dropped the armload of wood he’d gathered on the way back at the edge of the bushes. He looked up and down the deserted shore. He spent the rest of the morning gathering oysters and watching the sea.

 

****

 

By the evening, Hornblower had formed at least the shadow of a plan. He came back down the hillside as the light faded. Matthews had the fire going, and he put the first of the oysters on the rocks as the officer approached.

 

“I’m beginning to dread the sight of them,” Hornblower said. “They’ve saved our lives, to be sure, but when we get back to England I shan’t eat another for a very long time.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, sir,” said Matthews. “No worse than beef and biscuit.” He had a plan, did Mr. Hornblower? Matthews could see it in his eyes. All was right with the world, or soon would be.

 

“If there were biscuit I don’t think I’d mind.” Hornblower smiled. “We’ll have to go and steal ourselves some good French bread to go with them, I think.”

 

What a beautiful smile he had, Matthews thought. And he had their course set, right enough! “Will we, now?”

 

“Yes. We’ll go ashore tonight and see what the French have to offer us.” Hornblower sat down beside the boat. “I did see a road, and I believe there’s a town around the point. I saw a sail go beyond it.”

 

A few hours later, they were pulling the boat up on the opposite shore. Quietly, they crept up to the edge of the beach. The road was just where Hornblower had seen it.

 

“We won’t take it, I don’t think,” said Hornblower. “We need a boat, one large enough to take us to England, if we can get it. We’ll only find that along the shore.”

 

As they neared the point, the two men edged in closer to the brush. Here above the tideline the sand was softer and their feet sank into it with every step. Hornblower stopped for a moment, resting a hand on Matthews's arm. No sound came to them but the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. They continued on their way. As they came around the point they were met with the mouth of a river. Hornblower stopped at the edge of the scrub along the shoreline.

 

“I suppose this explains our lack of company,” he said. He realized now that the boat he had seen had been making for the mouth of the river, and was probably beached on the other side even now. Across from them were boats and beyond he could just make out what were probably the cottages of a small fishing community in the shelter of the trees. “There’s our way home.”

 

“Aye sir,” answered Matthews.

 

Hornblower hadn’t realized that he had spoken aloud until Matthews responded. He quickly recovered himself. “We’ll need the boat to make the crossing, and see what may be had on the other shore.”

 

“Aye, that we will, sir. Shall we go tonight, then?”

 

“Yes.” Hornblower turned and started back to the beach.

 

By the time they had gotten the boat and rowed across the river’s mouth, it was well past midnight. The night was absolutely still, save for the slight splash of the oars as they met the water, and the sound of droplets falling from them as they were raised and pulled back for another stroke. Hornblower steered them to the end of the beach, where the last of the fishing boats were drawn up. Together they got their own boat up like the others. Having come from a French prize, she looked like any of them.

 

As soon as the boat was secured, Hornblower began to prowl down the beach. He looked with pleasure on the bounty before him. All were small, easily handled by one or two men. They were all ready for sea, their masts dropped and lashed down on top of the hulls, their sails furled with the spars. He checked cockpit after cockpit and found no compass, no supplies whatever. Such small craft were only meant for coastal waters, while they must sail to England. Without food and water, they would be only marginally better off than before.

 

Matthews went up the beach to see what could be found there. The cottages were dark and still, and he moved as quietly as he could. He only prayed that no one was about, his French being nonexistent. In a shed he came upon several loaves of bread and a crock of butter. He quickly took an inventory and decided that a few wouldn’t be missed. A welcome change from nothing but oysters, to be sure. He looked at the crock of butter longingly, and finally took it, hoping that it would not be missed. He smiled, remembering Hornblower’s comment of the afternoon.

 

He kept foraging, pausing often to listen. Beside a fence he found a keg in the process of being repaired. The head lay beside it, and the keg itself was slanted, as if it had been dropped too often. A wooden mallet was forgotten inside it. A fine water cask that’d make, he thought to himself. He tucked the bread and butter inside it with the mallet and kept going. In another outbuilding set into the side of a hill he found the greatest treasure. Cask upon cask stacked in racks. The smell of oak long soaked with wine filled the small space. Matthews smiled and set the half destroyed keg down. He made his way to the end of the row, where the shadows were darkest. He hefted a small cask in his arms, and decided he could make it back to the beach with it. No heavier than a cask of powder, after all. It fit inside the damaged cask well enough. He picked it all up and headed back to the beach, well pleased with himself.

 

Matthews stopped at the edge of the beach. He stood still for a long moment, until he could identify the figure moving among the boats as Mr. Hornblower. His burden was getting heavy by now, but he managed to make it to the boat with it.

 

“What have you there, Matthews?” Hornblower had seen the figure break out of the shadows, and was relieved to see it was Matthews and not some insomniac Frenchman come to look at his boat.

 

Matthews smiled happily. “What’ll make a fine water cask for us, sir, though it needs a bit of work.

 

Hornblower grinned back. Trust Matthews to solve the practical problems! “And there are any number of boats that are suitable. However, we lack supplies, and a compass and a chart.” He looked at the sky. “In any case, we can discuss all of this back at camp.”

 

They bent to the task of launching their boat and made their way back to their island. Sleep came easily to both men that night.

 

****

 

Matthews was cradling him against his chest. It felt so good just to lie there and think of nothing. He burrowed into the warmth and felt a gentle hand stroking his hair. He sighed and rubbed his cheek against the flesh beneath it. He heard Matthews sigh as well. The arm across his back tightened, holding him closer. Hornblower felt his manhood begin to stir. Somehow it did not frighten him, though he knew dimly that it should. Such closeness with one’s own sex was bad enough, but with a subordinate? He realized just how ridiculous the thought was, as he remembered his own liaison with Pellew. The body beneath his was just as welcoming. He could hear Matthews’s breathing roughen, could feel his hands roaming his back and his hard cock pressing against his thigh.

 

Matthews’s hand slid through his hair, around his jaw. He felt his face tipped up and their lips met. It was as if fire flowed between them, consuming his thoughts. There was nothing else but those warm lips and slick tongue. Eagerly he returned every caress, allowed every intimacy. When he at last felt Matthews’s cock invade him he could hold back no longer.

 

Hornblower woke to the aftershocks of his orgasm. Horrified, he could feel his seed soaking into the front of his trousers. What in God’s name was wrong with him? How would he face Matthews in the morning? Every inhibition that had been absent in the dream returned full force. He all but jumped to his feet and stalked down the beach. He scrubbed furiously at his trousers, completely disgusted with himself. The man trusted him! As the rocks gave way to smooth sand, so his mind began to come back to some semblance of order. The clamminess at his groin made his flesh crawl. He stopped and threw off his clothes, save for the soiled trousers. He waded into the surf gratefully and slid full length into the cold sea, feeling it wash his body clean even if it could not reach his heart and mind. He undid the front of his trousers and roughly scrubbed at himself, not caring that it hurt, knowing that he deserved it. He did the same to the cloth, till no trace of his shameful act remained.

 

He stayed in the water until the cold began to make him shiver dangerously. He still had a duty to Matthews, and to his ship. He had indulged himself once, he would not do so again. The problems were many, their resources few. His greatest resource was the man who lay on the sand behind him. Matthews. The man he had dreamed of dishonoring. Of all the men he could be cast adrift with, Providence had been kind enough to give him Matthews. A man who had worked past the point of exhaustion to get them here, who had found both food and water for them. Now between the two of them, they must escape from this place. Matthews would provide the water, and he must provide the direction. Without a compass and a chart, how could he do so? He was not even sure where they were. A river’s mouth and an island, off the coast of France was not much to get them home on, yet it was his responsibility to do so.

 

It was a very long time before he lay back down beside the fire.

 

****

 

The next morning, Matthews woke again to the cold. He quickly built the fire up and squatted beside it until it chased the cold from his bones. He rubbed his hands together and looked out to sea. Somehow it seemed the way home now, instead of a barrier. He looked at Mr. Hornblower, curled up tightly under his coat. One of the best things about this strange adventure was Mr. Hornblower’s nearness, dangerous though it might be. He never would have chosen this fate, but if they were to share it, then he’d make the best of it. He watched his officer sleep. The handsome face was relaxed and vulnerable, the face that only a lover might see. For a few minutes at least, Matthews could enjoy the sight, and think on how it might be if Mr. Hornblower shared those feelings with him. He remembered the feeling of that long lean body curled up in his arms their first morning here. How would it have been if Mr. Hornblower had woken before him, had enjoyed their closeness? He imagined himself opening his eyes to find Mr. Hornblower’s warm presence against his chest, the warmth of his kisses against his neck. His own arms would go around him then—

 

Matthews started as Mr. Hornblower stirred in his sleep, and turned closer to the warmth of the fire. He smiled sheepishly, the growing lump in his trousers showing him just how foolish he was being. *What if he’d woken to see that, I wonder*, he thought to himself. *Better you get yourself to work before you do something that can’t be mistaken.* Matthews rose to his feet and quietly picked up the damaged cask. He went down the beach with it.

 

****

 

Hornblower woke to the distant sound of hammering. His coat fell away as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Matthews was not nearby, but the fire was burning cheerily and wood lay close at hand. He climbed to his feet and stretched to ease the aches of sleeping tightly curled on the sand. He wished vainly for a cup of coffee, as he had every morning they’d spent here. Even Scotch coffee would do. Something warm inside him of a morning was something he missed almost more than his comfortable cot.

 

He warmed himself by the fire and went toward the sound.

 

Matthews waved as he saw his officer come down the beach. The cask was almost straight now after some time spent in careful work with the mallet. He’d removed the top hoop and fit the head again and was just easing the hoop back in place as Hornblower reached him.

 

“Good morning, Matthews,” said Hornblower. He looked at the cask. “Will it be fit for use?”

 

Matthews nodded to his officer. “About done, sir. I’m just about ready to give it a good soaking, and see if I can get it to hold water.” He picked up the cask and turned it around in his hands. “Looks straight enough now, sir, all I need to do is carve us a bung.”

 

Hornblower smiled. “Well done! It seems that all we need now is a boat!”

 

“Aye, and we can get that easily enough.” Matthews bent down and scooped up the mallet. “That other cask’ll give us a bit more, once it’s emptied, and we know that one’ll hold water. With luck we can get some more bread and maybe some more wine when we get ourselves the boat. Wouldn’t be well supplied, but we’d make it home on that I think, sir. Fill the bilges with oysters. It’d mean traveling with a bit of water down there but we’d be glad of the extra food.”

 

Hornblower nodded, though the thought of eating raw oysters all the way to England did not fill him with enthusiasm. “We’ve bread and butter for breakfast at least.”

 

The two men began walking down the beach.

 

Ashore, unknown to them, a French fisherman’s wife was searching for a lost crock of butter and wondering why she had so little bread.

 

****

 

Hornblower came down from the hill where he had spent most of the day. He forced himself to a cheerfulness he did not feel as he came to their camp. Yes, a boat could be had easily enough, and thanks to Matthews they would have supplies sufficient for several days at sea, but he still had no way of determining their position, no chart, compass, or navigational instruments of any kind. They would be sailing blind.

 

Matthews picked up a rough wooden cup and filled it from the wine cask. As Hornblower reached the camp he handed it to him.

 

“Matthews, what is this?” Hornblower smiled in genuine pleasure. It had been a long time since he’d held so simple an object as a cup.

 

“Well, sir, I thought we’d need that second cask, and so we might as well empty it.” Matthews glowed inside as he watched his officer admire his handiwork. “Better than pouring it out, I’d think.”

 

Hornblower took a sip of the wine. After so many days of nothing but water it was balm, spreading warmth through his body. He took another sip. “We’ll not finish that much wine, Matthews. But how did you manage to make a cup?”

 

Matthews smiled. “No real trouble, sir. I just burned out a couple of chunks from the firewood. I used me knife and hot coals to hollow out the insides. Wasn’t much else to do after the cask was fixed.” He picked up the other cup and poured himself some wine. He paused before drinking it, wondering if Mr. Hornblower would object.

 

Hornblower did not. He folded up his long legs and sat on the sand before the fire. He stared into the flames, enjoying the wine for a long moment. “Well done—and thank you.” Somehow Matthews’s resourcefulness brought his own inadequacies into sharp relief. He forced a smile and did his best to push the problem of finding their way home from his mind. That would come later. For now, his duty was to Matthews. He finished the wine in the small cup. “Will the cask hold water?”

 

Matthews nodded. “I think so, sir. Let me go and have a look. I’ve been refilling it as it leaks. Seems to me it’s taking longer as it swells.”

 

Hornblower rose. “I’ll go with you.” He followed the seaman to the spring.

 

The cask was lying in the small creek that ran into the sea. Matthews squatted down beside it and rocked it from side to side, testing its weight. He handed his cup to Hornblower and then picked it up. “Still needs a bit of soaking, sir, but it should seal up well enough.” He carried it the short distance to the spring. “Cup, sir?”

 

Hornblower handed it to him and received the bung in exchange. Rough, but well made, just as the cups were. Just as Matthews himself was, truth to tell. He watched Matthews top up the cask. “How long until it’s usable?”

 

Matthews considered the problem for a moment. “Maybe a day, sir? It’s tightening up nicely, but I think it was dry a long time. Could check it again in the morning and see if it’s any better.”

 

“Very well,” Hornblower said. That would mean that they must delay another day. Another day that they might be discovered. It couldn’t be helped, however. They needed the water if they were to have any chance of making it to England.

 

Matthews poured a last cupful of water into the cask and it overflowed. He held out his hand for the bung. When he had sealed the cask, he pulled the crock of butter from the streamlet. Together the two men filled their cups and walked back to the fire.

 

Matthews went to the water’s edge and pulled out a canvas parcel. He sat down next to the fire and opened it. Inside were oysters, scrubbed clean and ready for roasting. He pulled his marlinspike from its sheath and pried one open, then traded the implement for his knife and cut it free of the shell. He then tossed the top shell onto the growing pile next to their firepit and set it on the rock.

 

Hornblower watched him work, admiring the skill and simplicity of his movements. Matthews might have lived this way forever. He wondered what the man might have made of himself had he not joined the Navy. He drank the last of his water. Matthews was right, he decided. This was no ordinary situation, and the wine cask would be of more use filled with water at sea. “Would you like some more wine?” At Matthews’s nod, he picked up the other cup and filled them both with the rough but palatable red wine.

 

“Thankee, sir,” Matthews said as Hornblower handed him his cup. He took a cautious swallow of wine, suddenly uncomfortable with the situation. Drinking with an officer was a new experience. He put the cup down and busied himself with the oysters, moving some closer to the fire and others farther back. “I think most of them are about done, Mr. Hornblower.” He rose and pulled the bread from the boat. He ripped off a generous chunk and handed the loaf to his officer. He passed over the crock and his seaman’s knife as well, after wiping it clean on his trousers.

 

For a few moments, the two busied themselves with the bread and oysters.

 

“Oysters are somehow far more appealing with something else to go with them,” Hornblower said. He emptied his cup.

 

Matthews did the same. He took another oyster from the fire and tipped it into his mouth.

 

Hornblower refilled their cups again. And yet again.

 

“They do look a bit rude, don’t they sir?” Matthews was looking at an oyster, turning it this way and that on the end of his marlinspike.

 

“What do you mean, Matthews?” Hornblower tipped his out of the shell and into his mouth.

 

“Well, women do have two sets of lips, sir.” Matthews took a bite of oyster.

 

“What?” Hornblower nearly spat the oyster into the fire.

 

The look of incomprehension was clear on the officer’s face. Matthews realized then that it was indeed true. Hornblower had never seen such a sight. He’d been sure that he’d at least taken his chance at Muzillac. “Well sir,” he began. “There’s the set on their face, and then there’s the set under their skirts.” He couldn’t help the filthy grin he knew was spreading across his face.

 

The shot went home. Hornblower turned scarlet and looked down at his lap.

 

Matthews couldn’t resist. “Both of ‘em are good for kissing. The lower ones even taste a bit like this.”

 

“I see,” said Hornblower uncertainly.

 

Matthews held up another oyster. He spread the tissues that ran along the edge with his fingers. “Oh yes, sir. Quite like them indeed”

 

“Wh—what?” Hornblower was at a loss.

 

“Well, sir, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Matthews leaned back against a rock, the oyster shell in his hand. “A woman and a bed would make this place near perfect, I’m thinking.” He looked across the fire at his officer and decided to be bolder. “Ye’ve had a woman before, haven’t ye, sir?”

 

Hornblower ducked his head again, his face crimson. He mumbled something incomprehensible, even to himself. How could he admit to a common seaman, a man obviously of much wider experience than himself, that he had not? And after so many days of dependence on each other, the chasm between officer and seaman had narrowed considerably. It was far too late to fall back on rank now.

 

“A man, then?” Matthews said it quickly before he thought better of it.

 

Hornblower’s head jerked up. “What are you implying?” Did Matthews know? Had he said something in his sleep?

 

Matthews met his eyes. “Nothin’, sir.” He waited a long moment, saw the relief flit across his officer’s face. “I’m saying it.”

 

Hornblower looked at the sand, unsure of what to say. He knew that he should use all the weight of his rank to put Matthews back into his place. It was the safest course for both of them. But how could he? The memory of last night’s dream flitted through his mind, as well as the knowledge that without Matthews he would likely be nothing more than a slowly dessicating body drifting in an open boat. Common decency demanded the simple truth, and duty demanded the opposite. He raised his head and met those eyes. “Do you really need an answer to that question, Matthews?”

 

Matthews took a sip from his cup, unsure in his own turn what to say. Yes, it was there in Mr. Hornblower’s eyes. He’d suspected his inclinations ran that way before. After a time, if you kept your eyes open you got to where you knew when your mates fancied other men in more than a friendly way. What he hadn’t known before was whether or not that inclination extended to him as well. Was what he saw now real, or a product of his own imagination? Well, John, you’re in a little too far to think of that now, aren’t you? “I suppose I don’t.” He rose to his feet and slowly crossed to Hornblower’s side of the fire. He went to the wine cask and filled his cup. “More, sir?” He held out his hand for the cup.

 

Their eyes met. Hornblower was mesmerized by what he saw there. He realized what a risk Matthews was taking, a risk he could take nowhere else. They were completely alone, probably for the only time in their working lives together. He realized that yes, he did want this, and not only in his dreams. He reached out and took the hand. He felt Matthews start as he did so, but neither of them let go. Matthews calmly put his cup down on the sand and kissed his officer.

 

It was as it had been in the dream. Hornblower felt the touch of Matthews’s lips all the way to his toes. He slid his arms around the other man as he slid his tongue into his mouth. They were pressed tightly together now, and Hornblower could feel the warmth of Matthews’s skin through their clothes. It was like what he had shared with his captain, and yet totally unlike it. When they had touched for the first time, he had been able to feel Pellew’s iron control over his passions. It had aroused him beyond measure to know that he was the cause of it, and he had taken joy in bringing his captain beyond it. Matthews was much simpler in his need, though his feelings seemed no less powerful. He could feel Matthews pulling his shirt from the waistband of his trousers, and then those warm hands were touching his bare back greedily. They slid across his tingling skin, learning him from head to waist. He pulled his mouth free of the seaman’s and sucked at the base of his throat, ran his tongue along his neck. He tasted of the salt water he swam in daily, and woodsmoke. Under it all was something that was uniquely Matthews. The low groans he was rewarded with only fueled his own passion. Matthews’s hands were buried in his hair, then tangled in his shirt. Hornblower lay him gently back in the sand.

 

In a haze of pleasure, Matthews felt Hornblower’s hands at his trousers, felt his shirt pulled away. “Sir, you don’t have to do that—“ he opened his eyes to see Hornblower smiling down at him.

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

Matthews recovered himself enough to chuckle. “Of course not, sir—but—“

 

Hornblower ran his hands across the bulge in the front of Matthews’s trousers, making the other man gasp and thrust upward into them. “But what? As I recall, you asked me a question. I’m giving you an answer.” He slowly unbuttoned the flap and eased it away. Matthews’s prick stood hard and proud before him. He felt the other man shiver as he unbuttoned the waistband and pushed it aside. Along with the lust singing through his body was the glow of pleasure at being able to do something for Matthews for once, something beyond the call of duty. He bent his head and took the hard cock in his mouth.

 

Matthews couldn’t help voicing his pleasure as Hornblower’s mouth engulfed him. His last coherent thought was that it didn’t matter, that there were no sharp ears or prying eyes to wonder at it. He gave himself over to what had only been fantasy before. Waves of pleasure rolled through him as he was wrapped in wet velvet softness. He felt Hornblower’s hand wrap itself around the base of his cock, felt his other cradle his balls. He thrust blindly, unable to stop himself, stopped by those hands, gentle but demanding. For just this once nothing he did mattered. He had no other task but to give himself over to what he most wanted. All the days of hiding his feelings, all the years of turning his thoughts away from the handsome young officer were over. He felt his release building and cried out with the force of it as he exploded into that willing, talented mouth.

 

Hornblower raised his head and swallowed what Matthews had given him. He smiled, both in satisfaction at the pleasure he had given, and truth to tell, received, and because he realized that the taste was, indeed, reminiscent of oysters. He ran his hands over the still-trembling belly, caressed the heaving chest. Matthews lay spread across the sand, eyes closed in the aftermath of pleasure. Hornblower took off his shirt and lay down beside him, propping his head up on one elbow and waited for him to come back to himself. None of the guilt and fear that had fallen on him when he had woken the night before plagued him now. He wondered why, even as he ran his hand lazily over Matthews’s chest.

 

Matthews opened his eyes. He didn’t want to, he was half afraid this would all turn out to be a dream, or that Mr. Hornblower would regret what he had done, but sooner or later it would have to be faced. Hornblower’s brown eyes looked down into his. There was no regret in their chocolate depths, nothing but the banked fire of passion.

 

Matthews reached up and ran his fingers across the stubbled cheek above him. No regrets. For either of them. He lost himself in those eyes for a moment, knowing that this chance would probably never come again. Then he climbed to his feet and let his trousers fall to the sand. He stepped out of them to stand there naked. As Hornblower rose to stand beside him, he put his hands to the other man’s trouser buttons.

 

“Wouldn’t ye like to be free of those, sir?” He slid them down Hornblower’s thighs, and kissed a wet trail down his chest and belly as he pushed them down into a heap at his feet. Hornblower’s sighs and moans encouraged him to greater liberties. He took the long slender cock in his mouth briefly, and kneaded the firm buttocks before standing back up.

 

Hornblower was panting, his eyes closed, his legs rubbery. He felt Matthews’s mouth come away an instant before he would have fallen.

 

“There’s something else I’d rather have, sir.”

 

Hornblower opened his eyes. “W-what?” He could barely form words as his cock throbbed in time with his pulse.

 

Matthews stroked the smooth flanks before him. “I want to feel your yard inside me.”

 

Hornblower felt the words in his cock. He closed his eyes briefly. Now he knew in some measure how Pellew felt. Oh God! He wanted nothing more than to do as Matthews asked, knew he would do it, but was the man doing it out of pleasure, or duty? “Matthews, you don’t have to allow me such liberties—“

 

Matthews laughed aloud. “Allow, sir? I don’t ask my bedmates for things I don’t want!” He came forward and kissed the young officer again. Oh, but Mr. Hornblower was a young one, and no mistake! He could take command of most situations well enough, but he had a lot to learn about making love. Matthews was glad he’d be one of the ones to teach him a thing or two. He feasted his hands on the lithe, firm body as he feasted his lips and tongue on his neck and mouth. By the time he allowed the lad a bit of a rest Hornblower was trembling, glassy-eyed with passion. There were some things that came with age, he thought with satisfaction. His yard didn’t stir quite as fast as it used to, but he knew his way around a man well enough.

 

Matthews picked up the crock of butter that lay forgotten next to the bread. He smiled. Little had he guessed they’d need it for something other than food. He scooped out a generous lump. “Aye, Mr. Hornblower,” he said. “I know what I want right enough, and I’m thinking that you want it too.” He rubbed his hands together, then took Hornblower’s rock hard prick between them. He felt his own yard begin to stir again as the other man gasped, then shuddered as he rubbed the butter all along its length. “Aye, and think of how good it’ll feel to be inside me, now. You think you’re the first man’s taken the windward passage with me?” Hornblower was breathing hard, obviously trying to hold back. So it wouldn’t last nearly as long as Matthews wanted it to. Naught could be done about that now. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to get another chance. He let go of Hornblower’s cock and took him by the hand, pulling him down to the sand.

 

Hornblower opened his eyes as Matthews turned over. “No—I want to see your face—“

 

Matthews smiled. “And I don’t want sand up me arse, sir. No, better on me knees till we can rig up something better.” He rocked against Hornblower, making the other man gasp with pleasure. “Go on—give it to me.”

 

And Hornblower did. He put the tip of his cock to Matthews, and slowly began to enter him.

 

“Ohhhhhhhh…Aye….” Matthews fell forward on his elbows as he felt himself taken. He felt his own cock stiffen again and he rocked back, greedy to have all of Mr. Hornblower inside him, slick and hard. He squeezed down as Hornblower’s groin met his arse and heard the other man groan his pleasure before he began to thrust. He couldn’t help but echo it. Soon they were straining against each other, their gasps and cries mingling with the wind and the sound of the surf.

 

All too soon it was over. Matthews felt Hornblower strain against him, then his seed spurted deep inside him. Regretfully he felt the other man collapse on top of him and he eased them both down on their sides in the sand. Hornblower’s arms went around him, holding him tightly. Matthews sighed contentedly. If it could only always be like this. But better to be grateful for what he had.

 

Hornblower slowly came to himself. He felt the weight of Matthews in his arms, felt his cock slowly slipping out of that tight passage. It was the last thing he remembered before he slept.

 

****

 

The next morning Hornblower woke to the sounds of surf and wind. He was alone, his blue coat spread over him against the morning chill. The night before came back to him in a flash as he realized he was still completely naked, and chilled through. He sat up and heaved himself over to the fire, which was recently built up. His head hurt abominably. Small wonder, considering the amount of wine he’d drunk the night before. He heard splashing and looked out to see Matthews, naked in the surf. He sighed. He’d have to face the seaman sooner or later. A bath was exactly what he needed, to drive the ache from his head and wash the filth from his body. He dropped his coat to the sand and walked out into the water. He clenched his teeth against the cold, but took perverse pleasure in it as it sucked the last ounce of warmth from his body. He picked up a handful of sand and scrubbed at himself, feeling the welcome tingle as it scrubbed the sweat and semen from his skin. He ducked his head in the sea and came up spluttering. Just what he’d needed! He felt energized by the cold water, the pain in his head gone for the moment. He dove into the next wave and swam out a bit farther.

 

Matthews surfaced with another oyster. He put it in his neckerchief, already heavy with others and tucked it back under his belt. He slicked his hair back and struck out for the shore. As he came out of the water the fresh breeze chilled him, making the sea seem warm in comparison. It made him walk briskly to the fire, which he quickly built up. He warmed himself and let the heat dry his body, but made no move to dress. He turned to look out. Mr. Hornblower was still out there. Matthews hoped that he’d not feel badly when he came ashore. He wished briefly that he’d not let duty drag him from his side. The fire and food could have waited, after all. No matter, not much could be done now. He grabbed the cloth full of oysters and went back down the beach to wash them in the surf.

 

At last the cold drove Hornblower back to the beach. He came up to the fire. Matthews got up from his seat on a rock beside it and went to the woodpile.

 

“Sir, you’re cold through—here, let me build up the fire.”

 

“I’m all right, Matthews.” Hornblower nevertheless stood close to the heat as Matthews threw some more wood on.” A moment later he started as a warm body pressed against his back.

 

Matthews rubbed his hands against his officer’s side, slid them around his belly. Every moment he expected to be stopped, but Hornblower allowed the liberties, even pressed back against him. “Aye sir, you are.” He whispered against Hornblower’s ear, then kissed it. “Right fine indeed.”

 

Hornblower felt the gentle touches through his whole body. He turned in Matthews’s embrace, and kissed him. In a matter of moments he was lost in a world of sensation. They made love on the sand in front of the fire, and then washed in the sea, together this time.

 

Hornblower had never felt so contented in the presence of a subordinate before. The two of them sat by the fire and breakfasted on the oysters Matthews had gathered, and then parted, Hornblower for the ridge to watch the shore, Matthews to finish the camp chores and watch the sea. Even if this had not been their usual routine Hornblower knew that it was far safer than remaining together. He wanted nothing more than to spend the day naked on the beach with Matthews.

 

That evening, they sat beside the fire, sharing one last meal. The boat was turned over and held the newly repaired water cask, full and pronounced tight as a drum by Matthews. The wine cask was beside it, full as well of a mixture of the wine that had been left from the night before, and topped up with water. Each man had a full cup of the undiluted wine before them, enough to cheer, but not enough to befuddle. Two large bundles of canvas held scrubbed oysters submerged in the bilges.

 

The last quarter moon was just rising as they rowed across the mouth of the river. The village was silent, the fishing boats pulled up on the beach as they had been before. The two beached their boat and parted, Hornblower to walk down the beach and select a boat, Matthews to the cottages to see what supplies he could find.

 

Hornblower was peering into the cockpit of a handy-looking little sloop when he felt his head explode in pain. He slumped over the gunwale and then slid to his knees to the sand beside the boat, his head spinning.

 

Matthews made his way past quiet cottages, into outbuildings. He moved quickly but quietly, taking whatever he could find. This time they need not worry that their thefts would be discovered. There was bread for the taking, and he found a couple of blankets in one shed that he took to wrap it in. It wasn’t long before he had all he could carry.

 

When Matthews got back to the beach, it was deserted. He stopped, burdened as he was, and looked up and down it. Nothing. Quickly he bundled his haul into their boat and stowed it under the thwarts. Perhaps Mr. Hornblower was only looking for that compass he said he needed. He set off back down the beach, hugging the shadows. He couldn’t wish away the sinking feeling in his gut.

 

His caution was rewarded. He heard the voices coming from the cottage and stopped to listen. They were speaking French, but their tone was fairly calm. He seemed to have avoided discovery so far. In the silence of the night they were easy to find. He crept up slowly and carefully to the window. His heart sank further as he managed to get a look inside. They had Mr. Hornblower all right. There he was, tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Two rough-clad fishermen seemed to be questioning him. Matthews crept as close as he could, where he could make out his officer’s responses.

 

“I don’t understand,” Hornblower was saying. “I needed a boat, and came here.”

 

The question aimed at Hornblower in return was unintelligible to Matthews, but he knew Mr. Hornblower understood it well enough, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Fair enough. Mr. Hornblower was safe, for the moment. Quietly, Matthews moved back from the window and stealthily back down to the beach. Nothing stirred, at least not yet. Who could tell how long it would be before those Frenchmen woke the town, though? He went back to the cottage. As the door opened, Matthews knew this would be his only chance. Sure enough, the Frenchman was doing just what he’d feared. He let him get a short distance away from the cottage before he struck. He never saw the blow that felled him.

 

Matthews dropped the rock he’d picked up for the purpose and knelt beside the Frenchman. The man was still breathing, his face white. Reassured that he’d stay quiet, Matthews dragged him into the shadows and went back to the cottage. The Frenchman who was left was no longer bothering to speak to a man who could tell him nothing. Instead he was listening, and looking out the window. Waiting for the return of his friend, no doubt. Worse than Matthews had hoped, but better than he might have expected. But how to get the man where he could be dealt with? He had nothing more than his knife, and very little time. To hell with it, he would have to take his chances. He stripped off the blue jacket. The striped shirt and duck trousers he wore did not proclaim his nationality as loudly, but the man would know he wasn’t a neighbor almost immediately. He would have to hope that the second or two of surprise would be enough.

 

Matthews opened the door and walked into the cottage.

 

The fisherman was standing across the small room by the window, and he turned at the sound of the door. Matthews launched himself across the room and knocked the man to the floor. He felt the wind go out of him as he jammed his elbow up under his ribs. Fisherman and sailor he may be, but thank God, he was no fighter! More quickly than he could credit, it was over.

 

Quickly he retrieved his jacket and shut the door, and cut Mr. Hornblower free.

“Thank you, Matthews—Is the village awake?” Hornblower rubbed his wrists where the rope had chafed them.

 

“No sir, at least it wasn’t. I took care of your other friend.” Matthews looked towards the window. “But I think it would be best if we got out of here.”

 

Hornblower was already poking about the cottage. “I couldn’t agree more. But I think we might find something here we need—“ He was opening a chest as he spoke. “That man over there,” he indicated the fisherman on the floor,” owns one of the boats on the shore. The man he sent out to get help is one of his crew. With luck, we might find a compass and charts here.” Hornblower pulled the top tray out of the chest as Matthews went to the cupboard and began rifling through it.

 

Under the tray was an oilskin-wrapped package. Hornblower pulled back the wrapping to reveal an old, but well cared for boat compass. He smiled as he wrapped it up again. “I think we can find our way with this.”

 

A quick search of the rest of the cottage turned up no charts, and the two men were soon on their way back to the beach. Hornblower went back to the boat he had been looking at before. It would do well enough, he decided. Quickly they transferred all their supplies from the small boat that had been their home and pushed the sloop into the water.

 

By the time dawn broke, they were out of sight of land, headed toward home.


End file.
